


Experiments in Behavioral Science

by gracca_amorosa



Category: Mindhunter (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-02-03 19:15:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12754479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracca_amorosa/pseuds/gracca_amorosa
Summary: You work with Bill Tench in the Behavioral Science Unit, and late at night the basement office gets a little lonely. You two try to make it less so.





	Experiments in Behavioral Science

You come in to the office late, exhausted and annoyed. You were out of the office the whole morning on errands, and had missed the train (by like ten seconds! The fact that someone hadn’t held the door open for you was a fucking crime), making you late for an already late shift. Lucky for you the FBI never sleeps. The monstrous building will claim another third shift worker this night.

You expect the office to be closed when you arrive so you have your keys out and ready in your hand when you get down to the basement, but as soon as you start rattling the ring around looking for the right one the door opens, almost smacking you in the face. You have to leap out of the way in order to not be caught by the handle.

“What the FUCK,” you yell, arms wide and ready to fight even before you look up – into the face of Bill Tench. 

He looks as exhausted as you feel, reading glasses slipping down his nose and the bags under his eyes so big they could hold your entire wardrobe. The cigarette dangling precariously from his lips threatened to fall right over the ledge and the deep sigh he let out cause a few sparks to spiral off it. The smell of smoke clung to him, a second set of clothes, and he didn’t even try to keep from blowing it in your face as he exhaled. His eyes roamed your face and down the rest of you – you were absolutely not within dress code, you were going to be in this fucking basement for the next eight hours and you were going to wear your most comfortable skirt and sweater you had, sans underwear of any sort thank you very much, and fuck if anyone cared.

“I thought you were Holden, coming back to torture me,” he says with his heavy, deep voice, and moves aside to let you in.

“What’s he done this time?” you ask as you divest yourself of your briefcases full of case files. You snap them open and start sorting the pages into piles – certain people, certain dates, certain places, a tapestry of a murderer. A serial killer, as Bill himself had coined.

“He’s got a burr up his ass about some creep in Oklahoma, name of Stafford. Been in operation for four years, was only recently arrested. He wants us to – direct quote – ‘get to him first’ to see what we can find out about him. Like this is a fucking race to talk to a fucking child murderer.” Bill falls into his chair without another word and shuffles through some papers, holding up a photo, a mustached man with dead little eyes.

“But then you’d have to go to Oklahoma,” you pretend to sneer, and Bill laughs, just once, then he looks at the photo and his smile fades. 

This job tended to wear on a person, even the founder of the department. Especially the founder of the department.

The two of you shuffle papers in near silence, gentle puffing coming from the smokestack sitting in front of you. Bill’s desk faced away from yours, so you had a view of his back, leaning as he placed his elbow on the desk, the barest glimmer of red from his cigarette. He leans forward occasionally to tap his cig in the ash tray, or to reach for a file, and you can see the muscles of his back well against his shirt. You can feel the blood drain from your head and go south, and when Bill cocks his head and looks back at you, questioning the silence – shuffle papers, dammit, you will yourself – you have to excuse yourself to go get a coffee.

You stand at the coffee machine, hands grasping the top of the metal box as you hang your head and pretend to look at the same shitty options you’ve seen a hundred times before.

You’ve known about this stupid infatuation since literally the first time the two of you met, as soon as his hand was in yours for that first handshake, you could feel the quicksand pulling you down. But you were never alone with him before! It was always with Holden, or with Wendy, or with some random little intern in the room.

Even when you were out drinking it was with other people, but you were always angling to sit next to him. You were a terrible flirt when you were drinking, and your only-slightly-off-color come ons had made him laugh when you were three pitchers of shitty beer deep and you stood too close to him while you were playing pool. He never actually moved away from you, and you could still imagine his body heat when he was just a little shitfaced. Sometimes he put his arm around you when he laughed. Those little moments made your heart warm. And other, more southern, places.

He taps your elbow and you are upright faster than lightning.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you breathe, wondering how such a large man with such an impressive swagger had snuck up on you so quietly. Even deep in your daydreams that would have been hard to miss.

“Are you okay?” he asks, and you think he’s genuinely concerned.

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” you say after your breathing has settled again. 

He gives you that look, the one that says he knows you’re full of shit, but turns to walk away. You stand very, very still for a moment, trying to pull yourself out of the terrible mental hole you’d just dug for yourself, but he turns back to you and says “Are you coming?” and you trot along behind him obediently.

Back in the office he dumps himself into his chair, legs spread wide and taps out two more cigarettes from his crumpled pack. You very willingly take the one he offers, hoping it will take the edge off of this very tense moment you seem to be having, but then.

But then.

He lights his own cig, large veined hand covering the flame as if there was a breeze in this windowless dungeon, and then gestures for you to lean forward so he can light yours. 

You lean forward. He presses the tip of his cig almost hard into the tip of yours, and you inhale. You can smell him then, musk and old smoke and just a little whiskey, and you are staring into his icy blue eyes and you can’t make yourself move away. 

You both take deep breaths and take the cigs out of your mouth, and instead of moving away he takes his free hand and grasps the back of your neck, tight but not hurting, and pulls you forward, pressing his lips to yours and they part almost involuntarily, and he blows, hard, his smoke filling your lungs and almost making your eyes water. He holds you there and holds your gaze, and you can feel yourself get wet, and you moan, not even bothering to try to pretend that wasn’t the single best thing that had ever happened to you.

He reaches behind him – shirt tight against his pecs, against his abs, and you can see the broadness of his shoulders compared to his lithe little waist – and puts out his cigarette in the tray, then reaches across for yours and puts it out too.

You are straddling him before you can think to do anything else, and his hand is still tight against your neck, and you are pressed full against him. You grasp the back of his chair so hard your knuckles drain of color, just so you can press yourself harder against him. His eyes look you over, lidded and heavy, and you can feel his hard cock under you, and you have to bite your lip to not groan at the feeling. He slips his free hand up your thigh, raising your skirt up as he does, and he moves in as if to kiss but his lips hover gently over yours instead, and the hand at your neck keeps you from reaching forward and taking it. Your tongue flicks out over your lips and his eyes follow the movement, and then his hand reaches your bare thigh and you can’t stop from moaning, the touch like lightning to your most sensitive parts. He finishes sliding his hand all the way up until his thumb sits in the crease between your thigh and your stomach and he smiles a sultry little smile – the no underwear choice was going to serve you well, that face said.

Beneath him you feel him plant his feet and he lifts you into the air, your legs wrapping around him instinctively, skirt giving up the ghost and riding up to your waist and he slides you onto the desk, letting you go briefly and stepping away just enough to reach down and unzip his pants and free himself. You reach down and take his cock in your hand but he pulls you away before you can get a good rhythm. His fingertips slide rough against your stomach as he moves your sweater up and over your head, your bosom heaving like a romance novel heroine, and he throws the sweater away, all the while looking at your open, gasping mouth.

Then his fingers are digging into your hips and pulling you towards him, his hard cock against your wet cunt, and you reach out and wrap your arms around him, feeling the muscles of his back move under his shirt and your eyes flutter closed as his mouth finds your neck, and you lean back, exposing yourself to him as much as you can.

You pick up his rhythm with your hips and his mouth moves down, down, down to your tit and your eyes flutter open as his tongue catches the hard nipple. He is bucking now, needy, his Cupid ’s bow mouth working its way back up til his lips hover over yours again, and you can’t stop yourself from moaning. And then, finally, he kisses you full and deep on the mouth at the same time he slides his cock inside you.

You dig your fingers into his back as he fucks you hard, his hard thighs spreading yours apart until you feel like you might split in half and you find his ear with your mouth, and your flicking tongue, and you want to moan into it, yell Fuck, Bill, fuck me, as his cock slides all the way into you, faster and faster as he fucks you into the table. You want him to fuck you until your legs give out, until you are hoarse with yelling his name. 

He puts his forehead against yours and stares into your eyes as he picks up his pace and you hold his head there, letting him see the pleasure on your face, and you can see each and every frown line stand out as he gets close to the edge. 

He slides his hand between you and then his fingers are at your clit and suddenly your whole body is on fire. Fuck, fuck, you say again and every nerve tenses up and you can feel his body, his thighs, tense too and he grunts loud as he comes inside you and he mashes his lips to yours as your body shudders soon after, bucking at him until your legs go limp and all you can do is breathe hard, pressed to his mouth.

The two of you are still for a moment except for the heavy breathing, before he kisses you twice, only twice, one on your gasping lips and one to your flushed cheek, and they are so, so soft after the way he fucked you. He takes his hand out from between you and places his two fingers into his mouth, sucking off your wetness, and you can feel your heart beat in your throat. He slides out of you and helps you to the ground, steadying you on your feet, and hands you your discarded sweater. He tucks his shirt back in, tucks his dick away.

Neither of you speak. You don’t even know what you could say. 

He falls into his chair with a huff of air and smiles his closed-lipped smile, and you sit down too, a jolt running through you from your still-sensitive cunt.

“So, when are we doing this again?” you ask, breaking the silence.

Bill lets out a deep laugh and leans back in his chair, the sex still softening his eyes.

“Soon,” he promises. “Soon.”

**Author's Note:**

> The serial killer is a real person, who was caught in 1978, the year this story takes place. This is (not spoilers yet) after Bill and Nancy are divorced, because I would hate for him to cheat.


End file.
